


brine and aperol

by van1lla_v1lla1n



Series: succession sprinkles [10]
Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, M/M, Oysters, Unresolved Tension, s2 ep8 "Dundee"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28838592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/van1lla_v1lla1n/pseuds/van1lla_v1lla1n
Summary: At the reception before Logan's party in Dundee.Greg said, "How's it goin', Thomas? Can I getcha an oyster?" And Tom thought,Thomas? Is that where we are now?
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Series: succession sprinkles [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011780
Comments: 13
Kudos: 23





	brine and aperol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [melissandre12345](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissandre12345/gifts).



> a gift for melissandre12345/dhmfm, who prompted me to write something about the bit of tomgreg background dialogue in "Dundee" where Greg offers Tom an oyster.

Greg hovered by a table of hors d’oeuvres at the reception before Logan’s party. Shiv had banished Tom on a mission to engage in _hurty flirty_ —whatever that meant—with Rhea. Trying to avoid that hell for as long as possible and seeing no alternative social opportunities, he reluctantly sidled up to Greg.

Greg turned toward him, holding out a half-shell, said, “How’s it goin’, Thomas? Can I getcha an oyster?” And Tom thought, _Thomas? Is that where we are now?_ Calling Greg _Gregory_ was normal—Tom had done it forever; Greg had even asked the rest of the family to do it. Not that any of them paid the request any mind. But _Thomas_? No one but his childhood minister called him Thomas.

He took an oyster, ignoring the one Greg had proffered, and slid it into his mouth, relishing in the briney smoothness on his tongue. Greg of all people offering him an oyster, that foodstuff of mythic sensuality, was the slight of the century. Tom rinsed his palate with a sip of Aperol.

He would’ve preferred to game out his attack on Rhea with Greg—test out a few lines. But he couldn’t now, not with the salty slick tongue-weight of an oyster in his mouth, not with Greg standing so close, acting like—like normal.

Like Greg hadn’t grabbed Tom’s face on his windblown balcony just days ago and kissed him quiet, an idiotic purifying flame heating one side of his body and the cold sweating glass in Greg’s hand chilling his cheek.

Like Tom hadn’t kissed him back—giving himself over to the loose, comfortable warmth when he _knew_ he should’ve chosen the brittle chill—until Greg pulled back and stuttered out half an apology and looked away all at once.

Like Greg hadn’t downed the rest of his beer in seconds, that throat Tom had held in his hand moments before working harder than Tom thought Greg had ever worked in his life to allow him an escape.

So now, as Greg breathed all over the hors d’oeuvres and looked abashed at Tom’s pointed silence, those sad eyes begging him to unclench his jaw, Tom didn’t feel bad at all. Greg had kissed him like he meant it and darted off like he hadn’t, and he’d avoided being caught alone with Tom ever since. And calling Greg out on a fucking hit-and-run wasn’t exactly fair discussion material for a Scottish family holiday, even for Tom.

If Tom had been feeling less charitable, he might’ve wished Shiv had been the one to get mites from the sand of _Sands_ , that fucking play, but the way she’d sweated and flushed when her obvious former paramour had winked by them in the foyer had maybe been plague enough for her. And Greg was just as fair a victim. By Tom’s estimation Greg deserved every bite of every mite, every second of itch, for what he’d done.

So when Greg whined about his discomfort, Tom had no sympathy. He did procure the miticide cream, but that was a selfish gift, and it backfired: Greg got whinier than ever, complaining anew about midges.

And when Greg texted Tom before the party, asking for help applying the cream to his _less handily obtainable areas_ , Tom replied, with only a tinge of hastily quashed regret, _I’m not your goddamn valet, Gregory_.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make the title a bad oyster joke and I did not, so you're all welcome for that lol


End file.
